Concerto (North Security 2)

Samantha

gives me a strange look. “Are you worried that I’ll remember it?”

Yes, but not because of the fear and anxiety the moment would give her. I’m worried that she’ll remember it because then she’ll know I was there that day. A blessing. That’s what the psychologist said about her memory loss. And I couldn’t disagree.

I crouch down in front of her, the same way I did when she was twelve years old. Even then she would clutch her violin for comfort. She does it now without even realizing. “Samantha, I told you that your father had enemies. If they think you know something—”

“I was just a child.”

Children can be dangerous. This one had always terrified me. “A child who might remember something from when she was hiding under her father’s desk. Not only from the day he died. From before that. A phone call. A conversation.”

She stares at me, bewildered. “What could I have heard that’s dangerous?”

Because her father was a diplomat between politicians who aren’t in power anymore. That’s what she means. But what she doesn’t know is that he was a traitor to his country. That his actions disrupted governments—this country’s government—with repercussions that continued past his death.

Yes, people would kill to keep those kinds of secrets quiet.

“I’m going to ask you to do something, Samantha. When you do the press for the tour, when the reporters ask you about this, say you don’t remember anything.”

She blinks. “They’re only going to ask about the music.”

“Kimberly Cox didn’t only ask about the music.”

Her brown eyes turn dark. “Are you sorry she came here?”

She isn’t asking about the damn questions. She wants to know about the kiss. I should say yes. I should be sorry that the woman kissed me, that I kissed her back for even a split second, wanting her to be someone else. But that led to me walking in on Samantha. As wrong as it was, it was the single most erotic experience of my life. It was more than I dreamed I’d ever have of her.

To my shame I’ve jerked off to the image of her in my head every single night. Every morning. My cock throbs in my slacks right now, eager to push through the fabric. To shove aside her skirt and press itself into her warm, welcoming body. She’d let me. She’d beg me to keep going.

“No,” I say, my voice rough. “I’m not sorry.”

Hurt flashes through her eyes, but I can’t begin to explain the complexity of my feelings for her. The way I shouldn’t want her. The way I want her anyway. My father always said I had the devil inside me. Part of me never really believed him—at least until I saw her masturbating. It took every last, torn shred of decency I have left inside me to walk away.

Her chin rises, because she’s always been so damn strong. She’s always deserved better than me. “I’ll agree to your rule if you answer one question. Honestly.”

My insides tighten. I don’t want this bargain, but her safety is worth it. It’s worth anything. “What’s the question?”

I expect her to ask something about her father, to finally back me into a corner and demand the truth. She deserves that much. Why did you get custody of me? What happened to my father? I would have to tell her.

“Did you ever want me?” she asks. “Really want me.”

I swallow hard. “That’s what you want to know?”

The milestones are coming at me fast, and they’re coming hard. Soon she’ll graduate from high school. She’ll turn eighteen. Those milestones are taking her away from me, bit by bit. None of them compare to what happens when her tour begins. Then she moves to Tanglewood for two months of practice for the tour and the opening show. She’ll travel the whole world.

“Yes, I want you,” I say, my voice hard. “No, that doesn’t even begin to describe… I need you. I crave you. I dream about that kiss in the club.”

“Then why won’t you—”

“Because you’re not eighteen, for one thing. Almost doesn’t count.”

“What about when I turn eighteen? Isn’t there a chance that you and I—”

I would fall to my knees if I thought she should. “I don’t see why you’d want to,” I say, keeping my voice bland. “You’ll have a career then, a record deal, a string of performances under your belt. There will be any number of men.”

She reaches out, her hand cupping my face. God, she’s innocent. She can’t know what she does to my body, the soft touch of her palm, the warmth of her. Or maybe she does know. Maybe she enjoys torturing me. “At the club you said you don’t think of me like a daughter.”

Slowly I shake my head, my gaze locked on hers. “I don’t.”